


Telco ar Lúva

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Developing Relationship, First Time, Food, Linguistics, M/M, Oral Sex, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-18 19:40:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5940706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor invents a new alphabet and takes an old relationship to a new level.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Telco ar Lúva

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGaGalion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGaGalion/gifts).



> Many thanks to amyfortuna for betaing!

“Telcor and...lúvar?” Rúmil haltingly said, his eyes following Fëanáro's thick fingers as they drew lines – some short, others long, others longer still – and half-circles on the empty stretch of the sofa between them. 

“Yes, for a new writing system,” Fëanáro replied, with stark candidness that was just a step away from insolence. He drew one last arch, and bit into the almond-paste cake he held in his right hand. 

Rúmil took one himself from the box on the table containing several more of the same, little, round, frothy things of different colours. “Is there something that...inadequate about the sarati?” he said, suppressing a pang of bitterness. 

“No, I like them. Quite a lot in fact, as you know. But I think they are more suited to a decorative purpose, rather than a functional one. I aim for something more practical – each component should have a precise phonological function, so that each phoneme will be easily identifiable according to its phonetic qualities.”

“Not everybody reasons in term of nasals and velars, and stops and fricatives.” 

“But for those who do such a writing system will be easier to remember. The majority of the Noldor have at least a smattering of phonetics, at any rate.”

Rúmil refrained from replying by biting into his cake. He studied Fëanáro's expression and posture. Their views on linguistic matters had become significantly different, but there was no trace of offence on Fëanáro's face, just unabashed self-assurance. It had always been like that with Fëanáro: once he had a grasp of any subject, and formed an opinion on it, it would be near impossible to budge him from it.

Fëanáro finished eating his own cake, licking his lips clean of crumbs with quick flicks of his tongue. 

“I shall give equal consideration to all phonemes, including vowels,” he resumed, his lips curving with the hint of a grin.

“The vowels aren't proper phonemes,” Rúmil readily countered. 

Fëanáro's grin widened. “Could you pronounce any word without a vowel?” 

“Well, of course not, but –”

“But what?” Fëanáro cut him off. "There can be words made only of vowels, but none made only of consonants.”

“Even those words had consonants in them at the beginning of our speech.”

“And why did the consonant disappear, and not the vowel? Clearly because the consonant weakened, and lost its function, but the words are no less complete for it.”

“So you plan to devise independent symbols for vowels too?”

“Not necessarily. I like your system of notation. It makes for a compact presentation. Sarati will always be in my heart.”

Fëanáro laid his right hand over his heart for emphasis. Rúmil's gaze was drawn to it again, like a bee to cloying nectar, and lingered there until Fëanáro moved. 

Fëanáro reached towards the table and rearranged the cakes in their box as if he looked for one in particular. They were Rúmil's favourite delicacy, and though Fëanáro had been forbidden to cook in the King's house, he always snuck into the kitchens to make some expressly for him whenever he visited after a long absence. Having found the cake he looked for – it was a pinkish one – Fëanáro picked it up and handed it to Rúmil, stealing the half-finished one Rúmil still held and wolfing it down. Then he shifted so that he was sitting with one leg on the ground and the other folded on the sofa, and he could face Rúmil. 

“How long will you stay?” Rúmil asked, his firm tone hiding the fact that Fëanáro's touch had made him quite flustered. He shouldn't forget that the reason Fëanáro was in Tirion at all, instead of travelling or tarrying in the Halls of Aulë, was that his wife was about to give birth to their second son. But he hadn't seen him at all after the feast for his majority, and the truth was he was ecstatic simply at having him sitting there next to him. 

“Nerdanel is due in three weeks. I'm not sure how long I will stay...a couple of years at the very least, most likely more. ...I could be with you often.”

Fëanáro punctuated his word with a gentle tap of fingers to Rúmil's thigh.

It wasn't the sort of liberty Rúmil would have let any other of his students take. The relationship between him and Fëanáro went beyond that of teacher and student, and spanned many years. Fëanáro had been entrusted to Rúmil's care at a very young age, not only because he had shown a precocious talent. It had been the natural course of events, that Fëanáro had grown very attached to him, as a father figure and a friend as well as a mentor. 

And yet they were not quite as close as Rúmil would have wanted. He had been on the verge of declaring his love to Fëanáro so many times, but he had hesitated too long and before he – or anybody else – knew it, Fëanáro had gotten married. Rúmil kept telling himself that it had in fact been for the best: Fëanáro was his Prince, the King's first-born son, and Rúmil shouldn't even dare hope to become his lover. 

“You should stay by your wife's side.”

“Of course I will.” Fëanáro's gaze dropped to the sofa, but his left hand lay flat over Rúmil's thigh, and gently squeezed it. Rúmil didn't have the heart to pull away.

*

It was five more years before Rúmil heard anything of Fëanáro's new alphabet again. It was very likely that Fëanáro had forgotten about it or simply lost interest in the venture, as he had with many other projects of his. Rúmil himself jealousy guarded the notes for a number of those in a chest in his own bedroom – fluid sarati strung together in every possible direction, drawn by a feverish hand to keep up with the vivacity of Fëanáro's thoughts.

Rúmil saw Fëanáro frequently. His own house was just next to the King's house, a honour which had been granted to him thanks to his pre-eminence among Ñoldorin scholars as well as his old friendship with both Finwë and Míriel, and he missed no occasion to be with Fëanáro, before he would disappear again wherever his restlessness would take him. 

He was also charged with teaching the history of Cuiviénen and of the beginning of the tongues of the Quendi to Fëanáro's first-born, eighteen-year-old Nelyafinwë, who was growing up to be as inquisitive as both of his parents. 

It was Nelyafinwë who acquainted him with a rather advanced version of the _tengwar_ , proudly showing the name his mother had newly bestowed on him spelled out in unknown letters.

Fëanáro himself then came to illustrate the progress of his invention. 

“It is a clever system indeed,” Rúmil remarked, studying the table Fëanáro had drawn for him. The letters were simple, regular, but elegant. “Why exclusively left to right though?”

Fëanáro looked like he had been expecting that question, still his voice faltered. “Because...that's how Mother wrote...in the letter she left me,” he stammered, and wrung his hands together, a gesture that was markedly unusual for him. “Don't tell anybody.”

It was just like Fëanáro to draw inspiration from the one piece of writing Míriel Þerindë had bequeathed to her son at the end of her illness.

“It is possible to flip the letters, and write from right to left too. Nelyo likes doing that.”

Rúmil laid the sheet back on the table, resting his chin on the palm of his hand, his eyes flitting from the paper to Fëanáro's face. “So...you don't want to write my name?”

Clever as they were, the symbols – every possible combination of telcor and lúvar – didn't represent all sounds, and both r and l were conspicuously absent from them. 

Fëanáro's eyes lit up and vivacity displaced melancholy on his face. “Those will need special symbols, I suppose. I do want to write my _own_ name, too. I was also thinking of adapting some of the sarati, if you don't mind?” Rúmil shook his head. Fëanáro stood up, smiling, and said, “I will visit again tomorrow, during the morning audience.”

“Shouldn't you attend?”

“Too boring,” Fëanáro said, scrunching his nose. “Nerdanel will take the boys to visit a distant cousin of hers. I have the whole day to myself...you could have it too.”

Rúmil rose to receive Fëanáro's goodbye, but instead of a kiss to his cheek, Fëanáro gave him a wet, sloppy, _intrusive_ kiss that landed straight on Rúmil's lips. Rúmil was too stunned, too unprepared to resist it, at once overwhelmed by the thrill of that caress he had so often dreamt about. Fëanáro delicately – Rúmil would have said shyly, if he hadn't known Fëanáro– flicked his tongue over his lips as he withdrew, then smiled and left. 

*

The following day Fëanáro resumed from where he left off: he captured Rúmil's mouth in a passionate kiss as soon as they stood face to face, and glued his body to his. Rúmil wriggled in his hold, trying to push him back, but only succeeded in freeing his mouth.

“Fëanáro, you're... married,” he protested, and clamped his mouth shut, but Fëanáro was undaunted. He wrapped his arms around him and nuzzled his neck. 

“So? You're not a woman, and I certainly don't plan to set my wife aside for you,” he breathed against Rúmil's skin. “Do you think I have been oblivious to your desire? You could have had me so many times already. I know you wanted to.”

“You were –” Rúmil gasped as Fëanáro's tongue tickled his earlobe. Fëanáro's hands were firm and warm against his back, and he could have melted in their hold, “– way too young.”

“I'm not way too young now.”

Fëanáro indeed was not. He was slightly taller than him and probably weighed twice as much as him. He was sixty-four, the traitorous part of Rúmil's mind added – as if physical contact weren't enough – a grown-up man through and through. 

“Rúmil...I'm telling you I want to be with you. I've been trying to get you to do something for months. Will you really turn me down?”

Rúmil was so close to giving in, but the more righteous part of his mind was very quick in reminding him that Fëanáro was his Prince, his former pupil turned rival in many ways, and a father. “I –”

“Rúmil,” Fëanáro said, his voice a little higher, sounding almost pleading.

“...and what will _I_ do when you will leave again, pursuing whatever venture takes your fancy, together with your wife and sons?” Fëanáro abruptly lifted his head, his eyebrows drawing together in a faint scowl. “I can never have you.”

“But you already do,” Fëanáro fervidly contended, his hands clawing at Rúmil 's shirt, “and you will always.” He laid his head on Rúmil's shoulder. His next words were muffled, caught on the silk of Rúmil's tunic, but made even more intimate by the contact. “I would have been lost without you. My wife and sons can never undo that.”

Rúmil breathed in deeply. For a moment, he saw the child again – unsmiling, aloof, and above all confused – who dived into every field of study to avoid thinking about death, who needed to sort out and organise the world, to know that everything was in its right place in order to find a semblance of contentment. 

“...I –” he tried plucking words in his head, but all his wit failed him at that moment. He could only admit what was the plain truth. “I will never love anybody as much as you.”

“Then act on it.”

“Have you ever lain with a man?”

Fëanáro shook his head. “I was always hoping you would finally own up to your feelings and fuck me.”

“My my,” Rúmil snickered, mostly to himself, and spared a moment to ask himself how he had believed he could resist. “There are no half measures with you, are there?” He gently nudged Fëanáro's head with his cheek, waited until they were eye to eye again. He lifted a finger to Fëanáro's lips. “I won't let you have your way in my bed.”

Fëanáro kissed the finger and ground his crotch against Rúmil's hip. “I will eagerly...receive whatever you choose to pass down to me.”

“Well, you always were an eager student.” Rúmil stretched up and pressed his mouth to Fëanáro's. Fëanáro let out a moan which reverberated through Rúmil's own body just as their lips made contact and meshed together. 

Every renewed clash brought with it a wave of pleasure, each stronger, hacking away at reluctance and sprinkling the soil for desire to finally bloom. Rúmil drew back for breath, nipped at Fëanáro's lower lip, and slipped his tongue between both. They parted eagerly, and Rúmil's tongue plunged into Fëanáro's mouth, exploring every corner of it. 

The sheer delight of it made Rúmil's legs weak. Fëanáro tasted of spices and honey and his tongue felt exceedingly soft against Rúmil's. He groaned into the kiss, muffled moans that Fëanáro greedily made his own. 

“Lock the door,” he hoarsely said, after pushing an equally breathless Fëanáro back. Fëanáro looked a little dazed, but nodded, striding towards the other end of the room. 

Rúmil swiftly passed into the small antechamber behind the morning room, and from there to his bedchamber. Fëanáro lost no time joining him there, the stomping of his feet growing louder while Rúmil got rid of his tunic, flinging it carelessly towards an armchair. 

Fëanáro's gaze burned on his skin as Rúmil pulled his undershirt over his head.

“That –” Fëanáro said, his right hand reaching out for the markings on Rúmil's left side, which took up the whole expanse of his skin between his nipple and his hip. It was an artful mix of lines and circles, marks – Rúmil explained – that the Tatyar had used to scar into their skin to show their belonging to clans, and for protection, because it had been believed they would act as spells to keep the Dark Rider away. 

“It's where the idea of writing first came to me...” Rúmil confessed, a little self-consciously while Fëanáro's fingers traced the scars in fascination. “Some clans used sequences of lines to inscribe names and incantations into their weapons, too.”

“Why didn't you ever tell me about them?”

Rúmil shrugged. “They never had any real effect...and are just coarse things.”

“They're not.” Fëanáro bent over, even if it put him at an awkward angle, and began licking the raised marks, grapefuit-pink against Rúmil's pale skin. He traced each of them with his tongue as he had with his fingers, dragging it along the ridges and furrows, from the middle of Rúmil's side up to his left nipple. 

He flicked his tongue over the nub, and made to suck it into his mouth, but Rúmil didn't let him. He combed both hands through Fëanáro's pitch-black locks, and pulled his head away from his chest. “I told you I won't let you have your way.” He kissed Fëanáro hard again, only to abruptly stop, leaving him panting and desirous for more. “Undress.”

Fëanáro took his shirt off so fast it almost ripped. Rúmil finished undressing too, and watched as Fëanáro pulled his breeches down, and stood naked at the foot of his bed. Rúmil took in all of the beauty finally presented to him with the same reverence he had beheld tree-light for the first time: Fëanáro's strong legs, his cock – already stirring – his sturdy hips, the definite planes of his chest, his mischievous grin. 

“Lie down,” he instructed, keeping his voice stern to hide the effect the sight had on him, though it was a futile effort: his cock already jutted up from his body fully erect. 

Fëanáro all too happily complied, leaping on the mattress and spreading out on it without any shame. “Should we not remove the coverlet?” he said, sliding his palms over the smooth silk, but keeping his eyes fixed on Rúmil's body as he climbed onto the bed.

“Why, you – a smith – are that preoccupied with cleanliness?” Rúmil teased, creeping over Fëanáro's body on his hands and knees. Like that, the difference in height and build between them didn't much matter. He reached for Fëanáro's lips yet again, drawing one more fierce kiss from them – he would never ever get his fill of them – and let his erection poke Fëanáro's stomach, while Fëanáro's own hardening cock nudged his thigh. 

They rocked together, their skin growing hot where it touched and slippery with sweat and precome.

Rúmil trailed his lips from Fëanáro's mouth to his right ear, and from there to his left, following the line of his jaw to the underside of his chin, down the middle of his neck and his chest, while his hands rose to pinch both nipples. 

Fëanáro arched into the touch, bringing the lower halves of their bodies flush together. “I can't wait to feel your mouth on my cock.” 

Rúmil raised his head, but kept rolling the hardened nubs between his fingers. “Who says you will?” 

He sat up and settled with his thighs sprawled on either side of the younger elf's shoulders. 

Fëanáro grinned and promptly gave an impudent bite to his right thigh, capturing the skin between his teeth and tugging on it.

Rúmil hissed, unprepared. Fëanáro unclenched his teeth and licked the spot, but before he could bite again Rúmil put the tip of his cock to his lips and trailed it along their length, smearing them with the precome that dribbled from it. Fëanáro opened his mouth before he needed to say anything, taking his cockhead in. He held it like that for a while, just sucking gently, his cheeks dimpling slightly with the motion. Then he opened his mouth wide again, still holding Rúmil's cock inside but swirling his tongue all around it, and pushing it out to reach as far down the pulsing length as possible. 

Rúmil refrained from pushing too deep into Fëanáro's mouth, but even so his insistent licks and the slide of his lips over his cockhead threatened to be too much. 

“One day I will teach you to take me down your throat, too,” he murmured, half to himself, “but enough, now.”

Fëanáro moaned in protest, and stuck his tongue out as Rúmil withdrew, allowing him to slide the whole length of his cock over the flat of it. 

Rúmil hopped off the bed, his legs a little unsteady with excitement, and hurried towards the bathroom. When he came back, moments later, Fëanáro was vigorously stroking his own cock and fixed him with an impatient gaze, opening his legs wider than they already were, putting his hole on display for him, knowing full well what came next and inviting it.

Preparing Fëanáro wasn't easy. As soon as Rúmil knelt between his legs, and worked two slicked fingers inside him, Fëanáro started writhing. He lifted his hips off the bed, doing his utmost to fuck himself on them, clenching and unclenching his muscles, not allowing Rúmil to do anything more than keep his fingers inside his passage. 

Rúmil gave an exasperated sigh. He slapped Fëanáro's hand away from his cock, and grasped it himself to force him to still, pulling on it so hard that Fëanáro's face scrunched in discomfort.

With that, he could finally work his index and middle fingers with due care, slipping them as far in as possible, pushing them against Fëanáro's walls to stretch and slick, patiently, though his own need was no less great than Fëanáro's. 

He scooped up more of the salve from the small round jar he had retrieved from the bathroom – a thick, viscous thing that smelled of lavender.

“What do you do keep that for,” Fëanáro grumbled, chafing at being effectively held down.

“I do have sex...from time to time.”

Fëanáro scowled. 

“You do not need to be jealous,” Rúmil calmly said. “The only regard I have for those people is remembering their names.” 

He curled his fingers inside him, so that his knuckles pressed against the bottom of Fëanáro's passage and his fingertips lightly grazed the top, then he shook his hand a little, eliciting a helpless quiver from Fëanáro followed by a throaty gasp.

“Fuck me already!” Fëanáro demanded.

Rúmil's hands left his body long enough for him to scoop up yet more of the salve from the jar which he then capped again, and put aside. “I seem to recall it took a while when I taught you how to write.”

“We are not _writing_ –”

“It is just as...laborious a process,” Rúmil said, letting a note of amusement slip into his voice. “It requires harmony. Think of it in terms of telcor and lúvar...they must come together suitably, do they not?”

Heedless of Fëanáro's grunts and grumbled protests, he continued to fuck him with his fingers, stroking his cock, and squeezing whenever Fëanáro attempted to lift his hips off the bed. 

It wasn't only Fëanáro's patience which was wearing thin, however. When he was satisfied that Fëanáro was sufficiently stretched, he pulled his fingers out and lost no time replacing them with his cock, seconding his own yearning before it could spiral out of his control. He eased himself in carefully, hugging Fëanáro's thighs, but without any hesitation. Fëanáro's insides opened to him and fit around his shape, hugging him in the most sublime caress. When he was fully sheathed, he stopped, squeezing his eyes shut with his head thrown back. 

He reopened them to the sight of Fëanáro overwhelmed by the same bliss he felt. His strong, beautiful face was glowing, piercing eyes glazed with pleasure and love and joy, and no sounds of discomfort came from his half-open mouth. 

“Rúmil –” he called softly, holding his arms out.

Rúmil let go of Fëanáro's thighs and bent over. He began to move. 

It was the most perfect moment in his life, so much so that he could have cried. Fëanáro's hands were at his back. A finger ran down the length of his spine, making him wriggle his shoulder and jolt inside Fëanáro. He kept shivering until the finger reached his bottom, tarrying at the cleft of his ass. Fëanáro's hands slid back up, and his finger began drawing lines and circles on Rúmil's back. Rúmil tried to make out their message, but lost in the clutches of an ecstasy growing with every thrust, he couldn't even tell if the letters were sarati or tengwar. 

Probably they were both, mingled.

**Author's Note:**

> All information on sarati and tengwar can be found on [Amanyë Tenceli](http://at.mansbjorkman.net/intro.htm). Particularly, on the issue of vowels, it reports: "Contrary to the beliefs of Rúmil and his contemporaries, Fëanor thought that the vowels had a phoneme value equal in importance to that of the consonants."
> 
> "Telco" is the "stem" of the tengwar (i.e. the vertical line) and lúva is the "bow" - telcor and lúvar is the plural.


End file.
